


a cure i know (that soothes the soul)

by peacefrog



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Arguing, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mosaic Timeline, Oral Sex, Soft Dads Being Soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: Jesus, he really needed that drink. And a cigarette. And for some Fillorian farmer to invent tobacco already so he could have a fucking cigarette. And for the sun to fuck off behind some clouds for just a little while. And for Quentin to stop being so—Five times Eliot and Quentin argued at the mosaic, and one time they didn't.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 20
Kudos: 155





	a cure i know (that soothes the soul)

i. 

Eliot looked down at the puzzle, faded reds and greens and golds reflecting back the sun, and a sigh fell from his mouth. “We did this pattern already, Q,” he said.

Quentin raised his head with a frown, sweat damp hair falling down into his eyes. “No. We didn’t. I checked.”

It had been six months to the day since their arrival, and Eliot was growing restless. The mosaic had become their world, day and night, with only occasional trips into the nearest village for supplies to break up the monotony. And the days were getting longer now, and the sun was always hot, and now Quentin was apparently failing to even use the spell they’d devised their second week there to make sure they wouldn’t repeat patterns and waste valuable hours that could be spent actually completing the thing.

“You didn’t use the spell,” Eliot said, wiping sweat from his brow. And, jesus, he’d never needed a drink so badly in his life.

“I did the spell,” Quentin said, rising to his feet as Eliot pushed past him. “What the hell is your problem?”

Eliot scanned the worktable in search of the wineskin, tossing aside pages and pencils and fragments of chalk, finding it empty under a stack of colorfully stained notebooks. “I don’t have a problem.” he said, his back half-turned to Quentin. “Did you drink all the wine?”

“What does it matter? The village isn’t far. Why did you say we did this pattern already?”

Eliot sighed with his entire body, turning around to face him. “Because we did. I remember because you said it looked like Cthulhu’s dick.”

Quentin shook his head, pushing the hair back from his eyes, and Eliot tried to focus on his growing annoyance and not how un-fucking-believably beautiful he was like this, his face filthy with chalk and sweat and dirt from their little garden. “That was different. The Cthulhu dick was green.”

“No. It wasn’t.” Eliot fell down on his knees and wedged his fingers under the edge of a tile, beginning the tedious task of taking it all up again. “It doesn’t matter. Just use the spell next time. And stop doing patterns without me.”

Eliot couldn’t see him, but when Quentin laughed, it was a bitter sound, and enough to make his heart ache gently, like a fist was closing slowly around it. “Well maybe I wouldn’t have to do patterns by myself if you would stop taking so many naps, Eliot!”

Eliot bit the inside of his lip hard, swallowing down the urge to spit something poisonous, choosing instead to continue on with his task of taking up the tiles one-by-one. He could feel Quentin’s eyes at his back, the contempt pouring from him in waves thicker than the choking heat of the Fillorian summer. 

Jesus, he really needed that drink. And a cigarette. And for some Fillorian farmer to invent tobacco already so he could have a fucking cigarette. And for the sun to fuck off behind some clouds for just a little while. And for Quentin to stop being so—

Eliot took a breath, and pulled up another tile, and turned around to look at Quentin who was still scowling behind him. “A little help?”

Quentin glared for just a second longer before dropping to his knees without a word, his dirty fingers pulling up one washed out yellow tile and placing it on the stack Eliot had started.

—

ii. 

On the night of their one year anniversary at the mosaic, Eliot and Quentin fucked like starving men. Men who had been starved of flesh and breath and anything that wasn’t sticky heat and chalk dust in their lungs, calloused fingers working sun-faded tiles into a thousand changing patterns.

And they kept on fucking after that, nearly every day and night for two blissful months that seemed to never end, not a single surface in or around their home left untouched by the sweat-slick curves of their bodies. The spring that year was nearly as cold as the winter had been, and the two of them found themselves retreating to the warmth of the cottage—and each other—to writhe together in front of the fire most afternoons.

The pattern they’d started that morning lay half finished and forgotten outside. Eliot thrust inside of Quentin’s mouth one last time before spilling hotly all over his tongue, collapsing back on the patchwork quilt spread out beneath them with a tremendous sigh.

“That…” Eliot started and stopped, letting his words trail off in a laugh, his eyes sliding shut as Quentin snuggled up beside him.

“Yeah…” Quentin smiled against Eliot’s chest, his limbs going slack where they wrapped around him. “Yeah. Always…”

Eliot drifted on a wave of pleasure, the warmth of the fire and Quentin’s skin and the afterglow of his orgasm more potent than any Earthly drug. But after a moment Quentin shifted and then pulled away, propping himself up on an elbow and drawing Eliot back to reality.

“What if we went back?” he asked, and Eliot felt his blood run cold.

“What are you talking about?”

Quentin frowned, and Eliot could see him searching for the words as his mouth parted and then closed again. Eliot didn’t wait for a response before pulling away, roughly separating himself from Quentin’s arms and stumbling to his feet, dressing quickly with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking no matter how he tried. Quentin mumbled something at his back but Eliot didn’t hear it, snatching up the notebook with that day’s pattern from their little dining table and all but running outside.

Quentin followed closely behind, his hair a mess and his expression uncertain as he fumbled with the tie of his shirt. “I’m just saying, it’s been a long time and…”

Eliot gave him a hard look, his stomach twisting itself into knots, his pulse drumming so wildly in his neck it made him dizzy. “We could be done tomorrow for all you know,” he said. “We can’t just throw away all this time we’ve invested.”

Quentin collapsed down into the chair next to the mosaic, and Eliot bit back the urge to shout. “You wanna live your life,” he continued, turning his back and crossing to the work table, “live it here.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Quentin asked, and Eliot slammed the notebook down on the table with more force than he’d intended.

“You know exactly what that means,” he said, the threat of tears climbing up his throat like a sickness. Eliot swallowed them down, feeling foolish, touching the pattern sketched out on the notebook page just to give his hands something to do.

At his back, a sudden clatter-crash startled him from his thoughts, and he turned around to see Quentin standing there, one of the stacks of tiles they’d placed that morning for the pattern now lying scattered at his feet.

“Oops.”

Eliot scowled, shaking his head, and for a moment neither of them spoke. “You’re a child, you know that,” he said finally, meeting Quentin’s gaze head-on. “Maybe you should just go. I can finish this on my own.”

Quentin threw his hands up. “This is our quest, Eliot.”

Eliot let a bitter laugh fall from his mouth. “You literally just said you wanted to go home.”

“I didn’t mean—” Quentin sighed, looking away, falling back down into his chair. “Never mind. Forget I ever said anything.”

“Not a problem,” Eliot spit, already gathering the scattered tiles back into a tidy pile at his feet, refusing to so much as meet Quentin’s eyes for the rest of the day.

That night, Eliot didn’t sleep, all alone in the bed they had been sharing for months, Quentin outside under the stars with the torches burning brightly, not so much working on the puzzle as sulking somewhere in the general vicinity of the tiles. He lay on his back, watching shadows move against the ceiling, trying to work out the exact moment in time when he had fallen in love with Quentin fucking Coldwater, and how it had taken him this long to realize that’s exactly what he’d done.

—

iii.

When Quentin married Arielle, Eliot’s heart wasn’t broken. She was nearly four months pregnant at the time, and already starting to show. She gave birth to Teddy in the dead of winter, and Eliot’s heart swelled with so much love at the sight of his tiny feet and hands, he thought he might never recover. Eliot actually prayed that night, for perhaps the first time in his whole life with honest sincerity—to whatever god might be listening—that he wouldn’t fuck this up, and for the health and wellbeing of their son. That’s who he was to Eliot, without question and right from the start. It was the purest and most honest love he’d ever known.

Seasons came and went. Eliot was happy. Six years was a long time to work on a puzzle, but their little family made the days pass easier. Eliot’s heart wasn’t broken by Quentin’s marriage, no, but eight little words, said through gritted teeth in the heat of a disagreement over something that wouldn’t even matter in a week, and he could feel the cracks as they started to grow.

“Don’t tell me how to raise my son.”

The look in Quentin’s eyes made Eliot recoil as much as the words. “I won’t do this in front of him,” Eliot said, voice low, touching the top of Teddy’s head softly before rising to his feet. 

Teddy was still sound asleep where he lay in Quentin’s arms, the colorful pattern of the quilt beneath them scattered with the remnants of the lunch they’d finished more than an hour ago. Arielle eyed them with a frown from where she stood in the garden, and Eliot turned his back, slipping into the cottage quietly, collapsing at the dining table and burying his head in his hands. It had never been a question to Eliot, who Teddy was to him, but all at once he was hit with the reality that Quentin might not feel the same.

When Quentin came inside a moment later and took the seat across from him at the table, Eliot wished for another door to hide behind. Or a drink or two or ten. It had been so long since he’d had one of those. Or a joint the size of his finger. Or a cigarette. Jesus fuck had Fillory really not invented tobacco yet?

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes you did,” Eliot said, raising his eyes, clenching his jaw so tightly it ached. “We’re not doing this right now.”

Quentin’s face had gone soft at the edges, and Eliot immediately wanted to be soft for him. How did he always do that? “I’m just trying to apologize,” he said, and Eliot had to look away.

“I don’t care what you’re trying to do.”

“You’re Teddy’s father too,” Quentin said, and Eliot’s chest ached hard, realizing this was the first time he’d actually said those words. Had they really never talked about this before? It was on brand at least, Eliot supposed, the two of them merely talking around their feelings.

Eliot let a silent laugh roll through his body, holding onto his anger for dear life. “I don’t actually need you to tell me that, Quentin, but thank you.”

Quentin said, “I’m a dick,” and Eliot said, “I know,” and they were silent for a long time after that.

Quentin pushed back from the table and went to the kitchen and made a pot of tea. “Is there anything I can say?” he asked, returning with the pot and two mugs, setting one of them down in front of Eliot and filling it up.

Eliot eyed the steam rising from the tea and into the air. “No,” he said, “there’s not,” and Quentin let out a sigh.

“Okay,” he said, worrying his hands along the sloping back of his chair. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Eliot’s eyes tracked from Quentin’s hands up to his face, and let the tense line of his shoulders soften just a little. “No,” he said, letting the anger slip from his grasp, hopeless in the face of Quentin Coldwater’s dark and shining eyes. “I guess I don’t. But I also don’t wanna talk about it yet. Or maybe ever.”

Quentin nodded and took his seat. “Okay. Do you want some sugar for your tea?”

Eliot wrapped his hands around the steaming mug, letting the warmth seep into his tired, aching hands, his lips upturning with the promise of a smile. “You know that I do.”

—

iv. 

Eliot hadn’t meant to yell, it’s just the he was so fucking tired. Exhausted right down to the marrow of his bones. Every night like clockwork for going on a week, they’d been startled awake by a nearly seven-year-old Teddy sobbing and fresh out of a nightmare, refusing the comfort of all but Eliot singing to him softly in the dark.

Quentin would always be snoring by the time Eliot made it back to bed, and he’d lose all hope of returning to sleep after that, lying on his back in the dark until the first hints of sun started creeping through the windows. If he were being honest, a solid, uninterrupted five hours sounded better than sex.

So when Quentin dropped a tile, and Eliot watched in slow motion as it shattered into a dozen jagged pieces all over the mosaic, his brain hadn’t yet caught up with his mouth before the words came pouring out. He wasn’t even certain what he’d said, but he knew that it was mean, and that Quentin didn’t deserve it, and that he was thankful Teddy wasn’t nearby to add those particular words to his ever-growing vocabulary.

Quentin could only stand there staring at him for a moment, face twisting itself into a frown. “Jesus, Eliot,” he said finally, kneeling down to gather the broken pieces into the palm of his hand. “I’ll just do a mending. You’re not the only one who’s exhausted, you know.”

Eliot huffed out a laugh. “Right. Because you’re the one who’s been getting up with our son every night and singing fucking lullabies.”

Quentin gathered the final piece of the tile and began casting the spell at once, the pieces lifting up out of his hand and floating on the air. “He doesn’t like my singing,” he said, watching as the pieces carefully fitted themselves back together.

“Big surprise there,” Eliot said, and Quentin rolled his eyes, setting the newly mended tile on top of a stack.

“It’s almost Teddy’s nap time,” Quentin said, lifting his eyes to where their son was playing distantly near the edge of the forest. “Maybe you should join him.”

Eliot took the sketch of that day's pattern, kneeling down and reaching for a sage green tile. “I shouldn’t,” he said, clicking the tile into place. “Don’t know that I can trust you not to break the whole thing while I’m out.”

When Eliot turned to him, Quentin looked just as shattered as the tile had been, utterly broken by his words, and Eliot hated himself completely. “Fuck you, Eliot,” he spit, voice quavering, pulling himself to his feet and disappearing behind the cottage door.

Eliot would have gone after him, would have fallen at his feet and begged for forgiveness right then, but he was too exhausted to put in the effort to get his legs to move. And Teddy was running over now, so Eliot had to put on a brave face and smile, as their son had yet to learn that at least one of his dads was the biggest prick to ever set foot on Fillorian soil.

—

v. 

“This is officially the stupidest fucking fight we’ve ever had, Q,” Eliot said, turning his face to the twin moons watching from above, the sky so full of stars he couldn’t hope to count them all if he had a thousand years.

Quentin sighed and collapsed back onto the tiles, stretching out languidly and letting his eyes fall shut. “Is that what we’re doing? Fighting over something stupid again?”

“You’re the one who said—”

“I know what I said.” Quentin sighed. “It’s been twenty-three—”

“No,” Eliot cut in, lying down beside him and reaching for his hand. “Teddy was born—”

“I know when our son was born, Eliot.”

“Yet you still have no idea what year it actually is.”

Quentin snatched his hand away before Eliot could hope to lace their fingers together. “You’re a dick,” he said.

“So are you.”

“Good,” Quentin said, turning to face him. “At least we can agree on something.”

—

i. 

Eliot's hands ached deeply, every tendon and muscle and bone. He clicked a brick red tile into place and refused to reach for another, pulling himself to his feet with his knees protesting the entire way. “I’m done,” he said. “No more for today.”

“But we haven’t—”

“Quentin.” Eliot turned his face to look at him where he sat on top of the ladder. “No. We’re not doing this today. Come down here and let me kiss you.”

Eliot could see Quentin fighting the urge to smile, but he said nothing, climbing down from the ladder and letting Eliot pull him into his arms. Their lips found each other with an ease learned over decades, and Eliot felt as though some unseen force might be pulling them together. Always together, always closer. Thirty years at the mosaic hadn’t been kind to their bodies, too much time spent hunched over tiles and baking in the sun, but their lips moved as fluidly as they had the night of their one year anniversary. 

Eliot pulled Quentin down onto the daybed, groaning softly as the ache spread its way from his back down to his ankles. The years had taken much from their bodies, but it hadn’t hampered their desire, and as they slotted together like two perfectly fitted pieces it hit Eliot all at once, the hunger for Quentin’s skin. He slipped a hand up the back of his shirt, sighing contentedly at the warmth.

“I wasn’t trying to fight with you, you know,” Quentin said softly, turning his face upward to meet Eliot’s gaze. “Just thought it might be a good idea to finish at least one pattern today.”

“Yes you were." Eliot pressed his fingers gently to the dip of Quentin’s spine, drawing from him a delicate, needy sound. “But I don’t wanna fight today. And I don’t wanna do a pattern.”

Quentin’s lips upturned in a smile. “That so?”

“It is.”

Slowly, Quentin rolled his body on top of Eliot’s, straddling his hips and dragging his lips along the slope of his neck, the coarse hair of his graying beard tickling Eliot’s skin. “And what are we going to do with all this free time then, hm?”

“I don’t know,” Eliot said, pushing his hands down into the waistband of Quentin’s pants. “Not a whole lot for two old men to do around these parts.”

Quentin hummed against Eliot’s lips, kissing him softly. “What a shame,” he said, pulling back, gazing down with desire sparking in his eyes. “Sounds…” He tugged at the tie on Eliot’s pants, smiling as it came undone. “Boring.”

Wanting coiled hotly between Eliot’s legs, spreading fever-hot up to his belly, his chest, wrapping like a lover’s hand around his throat. “So boring...” His hands trailed up the backs of Quentin’s thighs, coming to rest on the curve of his ass, giving it a little squeeze. “Maybe I’ll just… take a nap.”

A blush crept up Quentin’s cheeks, like this was somehow brand new, like they hadn’t done this ten thousand times before. Like his mouth and hands and cock didn’t know every jut and dip and curve of Eliot’s body. Like they wouldn’t know the shape of each other across vast distances or blinded in the dark. In a room writhing with a thousand other bodies, they would always find each other.

“How about...” Quentin purred, pulling the waistband of Eliot’s pants wide open before moving his fingers up to his shirt. “You take your nap… and I…” Quentin popped one button open, and then another. “Take my time using my mouth on you.”

“A blow job _and_ a nap?” Eliot laughed, shivering a little as Quentin pushed the front of his shirt open, exposing his skin to the early springtime air. “Oh, Quentin, you do spoil me.”

Quentin’s hands were like fire against his bare skin, moving from Eliot’s soft belly up to his chest, then replacing his hands with his lips, peppering kisses from his navel to his collarbone and down again. “Let’s get these off of you,” he said, tugging at Eliot’s pants, taking them down along with his underwear with a few gentle tugs, settling down between his parted thighs when Eliot kicked them away.

Eliot watched him fondly, unhurriedly, his cock only half hard where it lay curved against his hip. “Why are you so good to me?” he asked, reaching out a hand that Quentin took in his own.

“Because I’m in love with you,” Quentin said, bringing Eliot’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

Eliot’s heart stuttered to life, and, jesus, how was it possible he still made him feel this way after thirty years? “You are?” Eliot asked with mock surprise, voice only cracking a little.

“You didn’t know?” Quentin grinned, releasing his hold on Eliot's hand, pushing a strand of hair that had slipped free of his ponytail away from his eyes. “Are you sure I’ve never told you before?”

Eliot shook his head, laughing softly. “Pretty sure I’d remember that, baby,” he said, stretching his arms languidly above his head with a tremendous sigh. “You’re gonna have to learn to use your words.”

Quentin’s grin spread itself impossible wider, and he turned his attention from Eliot’s face to his cock, leaning down to nuzzle against it, making happy little sounds. “I’d rather just show you,” he said, licking a stripe from Eliot’s balls all the way to the tip.

Eliot’s hand went to Quentin’s hair on instinct, gliding over the top of his head down to where it was held together loosely at his nape. He let his hand wrap around it as Quentin went to work, sucking Eliot to full hardness with a practiced ease, pinning his hips to the bed with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his shaft.

“That’s it, baby,” Eliot breathed, thrusting up into his mouth when Quentin took him deeper. “You make me so fucking hard.” He pushed in again, a little deeper now, but still not quite giving him half his length, and Quentin let out a contented moan. “You want it in your throat, sweetheart?”

Quentin pulled away grinning, shooting Eliot a look that he felt deeply as his touch. “Always, my love. You know that.”

Eliot gave his hair a tug. “Never get tired of hearing you say it, though.”

Quentin laughed, biting at his bottom lip beyond the veil of his beard, stroking Eliot slowly. “Well, in that case…” He swirled his tongue around the head of Eliot’s cock, their eyes locked firmly together. “I want you…” He sucked the head into his mouth, making Eliot moan before pulling away. “To fuck my throat…” He punctuated his words with a swipe of his tongue. “With this big…” A kiss, almost chaste, so much love brimming in his eyes Eliot thought he might drown. “Beautiful dick. How’s that?”

A raw, animal desire clawed at Eliot’s belly, and lower, begging his hips to move, to fuck. And in his chest, a warmth growing under his ribs left him nearly paralyzed, a love so deep, so soft and goddamn tender Eliot could feel himself melting, melting until there was hardly anything left of him at all. He thumbed at Quentin’s bottom lip, and he sucked it into his mouth like he was starved, moaning around it, and Eliot let a whimper roll out of his chest.

“Open,” he all but growled, pulling his thumb free and moving both hands to Quentin’s hair. “You hungry, baby?”

“Yes,” Quentin said, voice thick and ruined, eyes so full of lust they were almost black. “Please.”

The way Quentin said the word made Eliot’s whole body turn to water. He was going to drown in this love, in three decades of desire pulling him deeper, forever dragging him under. Fighting the urge to make him beg, to plead in that pretty little way of his, Eliot planted his feet firmly on the bed, spreading his thighs impossibly wider, guiding Quentin’s mouth to his cock and thrusting in the moment his lips parted.

Decades ago, their quest was started: you have to show the beauty of all life. And Eliot thought, _This is it, I’ve found it,_ moving his body up and off the bed, pulling Quentin down to meet him, burying himself in the slick, gorgeous heat of his throat like he was meant to live inside. Quentin whimpered, planting his hands on either side of Eliot’s hips to steady himself, his body pliant and open and wanting. When they were younger, Quentin would come in his pants just from this, taking Eliot to the root until he struggled to breathe, Eliot’s fingers digging into his scalp as his hips worked, the broken sounds slipping from their chests echoing through the forest like music.

Eliot pulled Quentin off, letting him catch his breath, their eyes meeting in the filtered sunlight spilling between the clouds, spit dripping from Quentin’s grinning mouth and down onto his beard as he gulped down lungfuls of air, their eyes reciting the love they could no longer find the words to speak. Somehow, always, Quentin found a way to make him feel like he was twenty-five and utterly insatiable again, pushing back between his lips with a desperate little whimper, the whole of his body clenching like a string wound just a hair too tight.

Quentin pushed himself deeper, flattening his tongue as Eliot rocked his hips without any care for rhythm or precision, only the drive to feel him deeper, deeper, the sounds of Quentin’s throat working shoving him clear out of his mind. Eliot was somewhere else, somewhere watching at a distance, outside of his body as the animal took control, and he was certain Quentin was coming too when he began to spill hotly down his throat, the sounds of his moans so loud they drowned out Eliot’s own, a racking sob of love and relief that Eliot felt pulsing in his blood.

His body went boneless on the bed as Quentin let his softening cock slip from his mouth. Eliot stroked the top of his head lazily, babbling, “You’re so good to me, baby, so good. So fucking…” and Quentin laughed softly against his hip, struggling to catch his breath, hot little puffs of air dancing over his skin.

He crawled up Eliot’s body, straddling his waist, the front of his pants bulging and soaked right through with pre-come. “I’m…” he started, but he choked on the sound of his own words, and Eliot’s trembling hands went to the ties at his waistband at once.

“Oh, baby…” Eliot struggled with the ties, shuddering straight through with the feeling of Quentin’s body pressing down on him, desperate for relief. “You wanna fuck my face?”

“No.” Quentin laughed, shoving Eliot’s hands away. “I want you to kiss me.”

And, oh, Eliot gasped, forcing himself up off the bed and pushing Quentin into his lap in one unsteady movement, wrapping their bodies together, their lips finding their mark with no hesitation. Blindly, he got the ties of Quentin’s pants loose, tugging them open just enough to get at his cock, wrapping his hand around it tightly without breaking the kiss.

Quentin moaned into his mouth, and Eliot tasted himself on his soft tongue, stroking him without any sense of rhythm. There could be no beauty more perfect than this, the wanting of their bodies for each other, the way that Quentin’s cock throbbed and pulsed in his hand as Eliot pulled him ever-closer to the edge. And when Quentin broke away, sobbing against Eliot’s neck as he came hotly all over his fist, Eliot stroked him through it, rubbing a soothing hand down his back as the other pulled every last drop from his body until he started to go soft.

They lay together after, still half dressed and sticky with each other, grinning like idiots up at the sun. “Not bad for two old men,” Quentin said after a while, and Eliot laughed, scooping him tightly up into his arms.

Eliot pressed a kiss into his hair, sighing happily, love spilling from every cell in his body. “Much better than fighting, don’t you think?”

Quentin was silent and still for a moment, but then he turned his face upward, eyes soft and sparking with the familiar warmth of home. “Yes,” he said, planting a kiss to the center of Eliot’s throat. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> A question these two have me asking myself lately: is it possible to post too much fic? Everything about their love is just spilling out of me lately, y'all, and I don't think there's any end in sight. <3


End file.
